


don't work like that (no more)

by Athereal



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Natasha Romanov Feels, Natasha Romanov-centric, POV Natasha Romanov, Stream of Consciousness, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, inconsistent timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2020-01-22 22:34:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18536833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Athereal/pseuds/Athereal
Summary: Brock Rumlow wasn't her friend, he was her solace.It wasn't love.(Natasha deals with her grief in very counterproductive ways.)





	don't work like that (no more)

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline is from anywhere before Avengers, to just after Civil War

It wasn't love.

But she didn't know what love looked like anyway.

\---

Waking up with his warmth at her back, his harsh, heavy breaths as he slept like the dead next to her. She'd roll over, stretching her legs until her toes curled, and resting a sharp chin on his taut, tightly muscled abdomen.

"You awake?"

"Nah."

She'd smirk, he'd keep his eyes closed, but bring a calloused hand to her head, tangling fingers through her hair, curling his hand into a fist.

She'd moan.

He'd crack an eyelid and smirk.

"Don't make promises you can't keep," she'd purr through heavy lidded eyes.

"Hmph," he'd snort, and pull her to him, her body blazing up like a striking match, and he'd put their faces together and they'd kiss, messily, hungrily, he'd squeeze her too tight, leaving bruises.

They'd fuck, hard. Fast. Slow. Dirty and hot. Sunday mornings in their own kind of church. Making their own kind of hell.

\---

She knew Rogers wouldn't understand, so she didn't tell him.

She'd known Brock for longer, but she'd fought alongside Steve when the sky was falling down, when gods and aliens made war on Earth. He'd launched her off his shield like she weighed nothing, and believed her when she said she could do it.

But Brock knew the darkness in her better than she did herself, because when she couldn't bear to look it in the face, he could drag it out, dissect it down, and stare at it for hours. Brock knew her, all the way down to her wires.

She didn't know who's side she would've chosen, if she'd been given the choice. If she hadn't accidentally fallen in with Steve after Fury fell. She went with him because he was Captain America, and you didn't disappoint Captain America. _(He was a handler, and you don't disappoint your handlers.)_

But if she'd had the choice.

If Brock had gotten to her first.

She didn't think on it for too long.

\---

They sparred often.

Brock's style was dirty, messy, like a bare knuckle street fight in an alley behind a deli in Boston, because that's where he learned.

Natasha's style was precise, calculated, physical like it'd been beaten into her like a tattoo under her skin, like she'd been molded from childhood, because of course, she had.

They were evenly matched, Brock's wild, unpredictable strength countering her sharp, calculating grace. He was stronger, but she used her brain more.

Sometimes he'd manhandle her to the mat, all rough hands and overwhelming muscle. Sometimes she'd flip herself up and over, catching his head between her thighs, knocking him off balance, sending him sprawling.

More than once they fought as dirty as they fucked. She'd go for the groin, he'd yank her by her hair,  _("It's gonna get in the way in a fight, sweetheart.")_  drag her, and she'd use her widow bites to zap the everloving shit outta him.

She did it more than once.

"That's cheating, sweetheart," he'd sneer up at her from the mats.

"That's winning, asshole," she'd spit back. But she'd throw herself on him, he'd catch her, roll them, and take her right there.

She imagined she could still feel the sting of the lightning dancing across his nerves, suffusing into her own.

"That's not always gonna work, _sweetheart,"_ he hissed into her ear. A vicious thrust sent her hips snapping to the mat, and she bit the meat of his neck, hard. She came, violently, wildly, claws down his back.

It wasn't love.

\---

She had her own place, but she kept a toothbrush at his.

When a mission went sideways, Clint could flee to a home cooked meal, a soft, willing woman with a snow white soul, little kids with wide, gap-toothed grins. He could go _home._

She had nowhere to go, so she'd go to Rumlow.

Clint could slough off the blood in an old farmhouse shower, in the hugs of his babies, in the warmth of his wife. She'd scrub the blood off in Rumlow's utilitarian shower stall, letting the scalding water rinse pink down the drain.

Rumlow would leave a t-shirt on the sink for her.

And then, hair still wetting the collar of an oversized Strike t-shirt, she'd let Rumlow make her bleed. They fucked hardest after those missions, the ones that left screams in her ears and her heart up high in her throat. Rumlow would spit filth in her ear, talking more then usual, driving out the voices in her head.

He always knew what she needed.

Clint was her best friend, but Rumlow was her solace.

He could cook, too. Usually pasta or Italian fare, things he grew up with. It was strange to think of him as a child. She'd never been a child herself. He'd make enough spaghetti to share, leaving the pot on the stove for her to eat, or not.

Sometimes she'd go, slipping out the window unseen. Other times she'd stay, slurping noodles off of Brock's mismatched plates. They'd sit on opposite sides of the couch. She'd kick a foot into his lap, and he'd rub it absent-mindedly as the TV blared in the foreground.

She could remember his glassy eyed stare as he gazed at the screen, rough fingers kneading the sole of her foot. She'd wondered, then, what was behind his eyes, what thoughts kept him preoccupied.

She wondered now, if he'd been thinking about betrayal, about her, about how the two fit together.

She'd never asked.

\---

She didn't expect it to be so _hard._

Seeing his face, _behind a mask, but still,_ in the newspapers. Hearing reports from Interpol and SHIELD of Crossbones. (She didn't hate the name. It suited his brand of violence.)

Steve announced they'd be hunting him down on a Wednesday morning, during the Avengers weekly "staff meeting".

"We're going after Rumlow," Steve said, in his painfully earnest way.

Her face stayed smooth, but her insides _seized._

Across the table, Wanda recoiled as if struck. She smothered a gasp, hand over her mouth. Natasha locked eyes with her, and found Wanda staring back, eyes wide.

"You okay?" Sam asked; everyone was looking at Wanda, their newest Avenger. Vision took Wanda's hand. No one was looking at her.

"I'm fine," Wanda said, finally dropping her gaze.

Natasha's eyes narrowed.

\---

After it was over and the helicarriers fell, she broke into Rumlow's apartment.

He wasn't there, of course, but she wandered from room to room anyway, touching things, running her fingers over countertops and the back of the couch. Every surface brought something back. They'd fucked nearly everywhere.

She found half a bottle of vodka in the freezer, exactly where she'd put it last time she was over. She took it with her as she went to the bedroom. The bed was unmade, and the floor was uncluttered. His smell, faintly pervasive throughout the place, was strongest here.

She was still wearing her catsuit.

She stripped it off, and showered, like she had dozens of times before. She used his shampoo.

But Brock wasn't sprawled on the bed, wearing nothing but boxers and reading a Jack Reacher novel when she emerged. The room was dark, and empty, like the rest of the apartment.

Like the rest of her.

She put on one of the t-shirts from his closet, and climbed into his bed. The shirt was soft and old, smelling faintly of his detergent. She polished off the vodka, setting the bottle on the nightstand with a thud. She curled up, pulling the blankets up over her head. She closed her eyes. His smell was all around her.

Her breath came hard and uneven, filling the cavernous silence.

She didn't cry.

It wasn't love.

\---

She stayed in his apartment for a week, moving silently, not speaking. Her own apartment was compromised, she reasoned. It wasn't like he was here to kick her out. He was alive, in intensive care, with armed guards outside his door. He had deep burns, but the doctors were optimistic for an almost complete recovery.

_(Hacking the hospital computers wasn't hard.)_

She knew no one would find her here. Nobody knew about Brock. About her.

About her and Brock.

Well, Fury knew. Fury knew everything. _(Except apparently, he **didn't.)**_

But Fury knew better than to look for her when she didn't want to be found.

Fury didn't approve of their _tryst._

She didn't care.

But Fury thought she should be with someone like Bruce Banner, someone soft, someone who could control their darkness, instead of feeding it. Fury sent her to recruit Bruce, hoping they'd _click._  She wasn't stupid. Fury was a good spy, but a shitty matchmaker.

The first thing she did when she got back to SHIELD was drag Brock Rumlow into a storage closet, and make him fuck her until it _hurt._

"What's gotten into you, sweetheart?" Brock grunted into her ear, her back pressed to the wall, her suit around her knees, his hands clutching her hips in place as he drilled her mercilessly, "Something go wrong with the jolly green giant?"

"Shut up," She spat, baring her teeth, fingers raking down his back, under his shirt, leaving bloody little trails.

Brock laughed, and her annoyance flared. He slipped a hand between their bodies, and touched her _just right._

Her eyes rolled back on a moan, and she let him make her forget.

Fury didn't approve, but she was done letting handlers tell her what to do.

If Brock was the fire she was playing with, she was ready to burn.

\---

She took over his lease, and didn't tell a soul.

She didn't go there often, but paid the rent every month in cash. It wasn't healthy, but she didn't give a shit anymore. She tried to see what Fury saw in Banner. She tried to make him _fit._

They never made love, but she knew how it would've been. Slow, tender, soft. Bruce would gaze at her with sadness, kiss her gently. But they never got there.  _(She was glad, deep down in her guts, that the last man's hands on her had been Brock's.)_  Bruce fell for her, but she betrayed him. She shoved him off a ledge because the thought of running away with Bruce made her insides cold and sick. She knew he couldn't forgive her for what she'd done. It was why she'd done it. When he didn't come back, she knew the relief she felt was the ultimate betrayal.

After Sokovia, she went back to DC. She didn't go often, because Steve would ask questions.

But she was off balance, worn away at the edges, ready to rest. Steve said they were going to train up the new Avengers, make them a _team._

She wasn't ready. She needed time to heal. Steve thought her heart was broken, but he was wrong. She was just _tired._ She didn't sleep well on the road, or at the tower, or anywhere that wasn't in a small, vacant apartment in DC.

Natasha wasn't prepared to find Brock Rumlow in her _(his)_ apartment, dozing in her _(his)_ bed.

But he was.

The breathing was unmistakable.

Her breath caught in her chest, heart hammering staccato behind her eyes.

_How could this be?_

"You gonna shoot me?" Brock's gravelly voice rang out through the space. He sat up, and looked at her. He seemed surprised not to have a pistol pointed at his face.

She hadn't even thought to draw.

"What are you doing here?" She heard her voice ask.

"This is my apartment," Brock looked better than she would've expected, all things considered. The right side of his face was heavily scarred, his ear misshapen. But the left side was as she remembered, if more tired. His black hair was tousled with sleep, and he had a strong five o'clock shadow.

She didn't, _couldn't_ , say anything. She stared at him, her heart still beating painfully fast.

"You gonna turn me in?" Brock asked a low voice.

She shook her head, realizing as she did so, that no, she wouldn't.

A beat passed.

"I'm gonna get up," Brock said, "Don't shoot me."

She nodded. She still hadn't drawn her weapon.

He got out of the bed, and she could see his muscles ripple under his shirt. He was wearing boxers, and an old shirt she recognized.

She swallowed.

He caught her looking, and smirked at her. She looked away.

"I'm going to shower," she said, because her heart felt like it might explode if she didn't move. 

She was in the shower for a long time. The water ran cold well before she got out. She wondered if he'd noticed she'd been buying the same shampoo.

A neatly folded t-shirt was waiting on the lip of the sink for her. The nostalgia pulled painfully in her gut. She pulled the shirt on over her head.

He was sprawled on the bed, phone in hand and a concentrated look on his face. It felt like going back in time, until he looked at her, and she could see his scars. He arched a brow, as if to say, _What now, sweetheart?_

She crossed to the bed and stood over him. He didn't move away, but she could see the tense lines of him. She could see every facet of his scars, this close.

He smelled the same.

She ran her fingers, feather light, over the scars. He didn't pull away. His skin was warm, alive, _there._

He was watching her warily. Not for an attack, because they both knew she wouldn't; he watched her for judgement. She cupped his face in her palm, covering the worst of his scars. She leaned down and kissed him. His lips were the same. Chapped, warm, alive, _there._

It was the softest kiss they'd shared. Brock didn't resist, but didn't respond. Natasha pulled back after a minute, and looked into his eyes.

"What're you doing?" Brock rumbled, breath heavy on her lips.

"Trying to forget," she murmured back, eyes smoky green like breath on bottle, searching his own, "Help me remember. Help me forget."

He swallowed reflexively.

"I'm not a good guy, sweetheart," he told her.

"I know."

His hand on her neck pulled her down for another kiss. She tumbled into the bed, and let him make her forget.

If only for awhile.

\---

She spent a week in Washington, with Rumlow. She knew Steve would be so disappointed.

She couldn't bring herself to care.

Not when Brock was here, alive, and seemingly willing to let her have this.

They fucked frequently, on nearly every surface of the apartment. She'd forgotten how good Rumlow was at it. They spent time relearning each other, showing off new scars. (He had more than her, of course. She kissed his marks. He let her.)

She left twice to buy food, beer and vodka.

But otherwise, they spent a week joined at the hip.

She didn't ask him if he'd missed her.

She couldn't handle the answer.  
  
\---

It was Sunday night, and they ate Thai naked on the couch. Brock finished first, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. He grabbed at her, and she let him drag her to his broad chest.

He fucked her quickly on the couch, wrenching an orgasm from her, leaving her breathless. He picked her up, and carried her, legs astride his hips, chests pressed, arms slung around his neck, into the bedroom, where he dropped her on the bed with a thump.

She bounced a little, and it made him smile. He leaned over her, kissing her slowly, thoroughly, one arm supporting his weight, knee planted on the bed at her hip, a hand tangled in her hair. They kissed like that for a long time. If she didn't know better, she would've called it tender. When he pulled away, her eyes opened.

The look on his face made her breath catch.

He was staring at her with naked desire, and something more. Something that made his eyes burn in his face.

He licked his lips.

She grinned at him, heat in her chest, color in her cheeks.

"Natasha, I-" he started, stopped suddenly like he hadn't meant to speak.

She knew what he would say, and she couldn't stand to hear it. Not now, not on their last day.

She pulled him down to her, coaxing him to lay his full weight on her, tucking his head beneath her chin. She smoothed a hand down his back, and breathed him in. Memorized him.

"I'm leaving tomorrow," she said in a low voice, "Don't tell me lies. You know I can't stay."

He grunted into her breasts.

"Make me remember you," she spoke into his ear. He snorted.

"As if you could forget."

He made love to her that night, over and over.

The sun rose to find her, naked, exhausted, astride his cock, riding him as he coaxed her with soft words, his thrusts powerful and deep. He held her hands in his, letting her use him to leverage herself up and down, murmuring, "That's it, sweetheart, come on, come on, _come on..."_

Her muscles ached, but she pressed on, riding the edge of pain and pleasure, until one hard thrust pushed her over. She keened deep in her throat, head tossed back, hair spilling down her neck, sobbing as she came.

Distantly, she heard the guttural grunt that meant he'd found his release.

She rocked on his jerking cock, moaning like a bitch in heat, aftershocks licking up her spine like friendly fire. She collapsed forward, catching her hands on either side of his head, panting in his face, her hair falling around them in a curtain.

Wetness dripped onto his burned cheek. He kept his eyes closed.

It wasn't love.

\---

Eight months after she left DC, Steve announced they were going after Rumlow. Three months later, they found him in Lagos.

She didn't hold back when they fought, and neither did he.

She was an Avenger, and he was Crossbones. She drove her widow bites into his neck, and his eyes flashed as they met hers.

"I don't work like that no more."

She didn't say anything, and he dropped her in a tank with a live grenade.

It was the last time she saw him alive.

She told herself she wasn't angry with Steve. Brock blew himself to hell. Steve was just there. It wasn't his fault. But then she sided with Tony on the accords, and she couldn't say why because she didn't care one way or another.

Steve was her friend, how could she turn on him?

_I don't work like that no more._

Her insides burned.

\---

When it was over, when she was finally alone in her room in Wakanda, she read Brock's autopsy report.

_Brock's autopsy._

She had to, because she couldn't stop thinking of him in the present tense. She couldn't stop thinking of him as _alive._ She needed to see for herself.

His body was badly burned, but some combination of Wanda's magic and his body armor left his torso mostly intact.She stared at the pictures of his scars, remembering their roughness on her skin.There was something new, on his chest, something not a scar, but very tiny and dark.

She squinted at the picture, and then it hit her all of a sudden. A tiny spider was tattooed over his heart.

Sick heat roared through her chest, and vomit rose in her throat. She choked back a heave.

_Jesus._

She threw up into the bin, vomit burning her mouth and nose. And then, she _howled._

It wasn't love.

She didn't know what love looked like anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I love this messy pairing, and wish there was more of it in the world. One quick thing; in my headcanon, Wanda can feel and react to very strong emotions around her, especially when she isn't expecting them.


End file.
